Demarcation
by Lynnafer
Summary: After a long day at work, House finally realizes where he stands with Wilson


Looking back, there had been no clear demarcation line

Demarcation: noun

1. the boundary of a specific area

2. a conceptual separation or distinction; "there is a narrow line between sanity and insanity"

Looking back, there had been no clear demarcation line. It had started with dinner on the couch, analyzing and critiquing Cuddy's most recent choices in attire and dates. Which had led to making out on the couch, spilling lo mein over the worn leather. Which had led to sex on the couch, causing the sweet and sour sauce stains on the throw that Wilson would later moan about. Which had led to sex in his bed where Wilson had proved to him how he'd managed to keep his marriages going as long as he had. Which had led to sleeping in his bed, completely freaking him out. That had led to sex in the shower in the morning, which naturally led to Wilson keeping his shampoo there and consequently to his hair smelling like a fruit salad. Which had led to Wilson's ties in his closet and Wilson's books in his living room. His apartment had been Wilsonized. It wasn't so much the Wilsonization that bothered him, but the fact that he couldn't pin point the one moment when it had all changed. It all flowed so smoothly that he hadn't noticed until it the transformation was complete, like waking up one morning to snow and wondering how winter had snuck up on you. What exactly had happened that led to him holding a shaking Wilson in his arms after a long day?

It had been a good morning. His only patient was on the mend and the bad weather was thankfully keeping all the sick people in their homes. Even the clinic was devoid of the usual runny noses and genital rashes. He'd spent a good portion of his morning reading journal articles on the couch in Wilson's office while Wilson himself worked on charts. They'd enjoyed the companionable silence while exchanging intermittent glances and knowing smiles. Barely concentration on the newest methodology in renal biopsies, he'd wondered when exactly he'd reverted to a love-struck teenager. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd watched the masculine grace of his lover at his desk who'd scowled momentarily as he knocked over a cup of pens realizing that _someone_ had reversed his careful left-handed organization. It had been a good morning.

It all changed just after one o'clock. The giant flakes of snow fell at a dizzying rate, turning the hospital courtyard into a beautiful landscape of stark white nothingness. A lovely scene for an ambling stroll, but it did nothing for the condition of the already slick roads. An SUV had spun out while merging onto the inter-state. The authorities had estimated at least thirty vehicles had been involved, probably more like fifty. The majority of the casualties had been sent to PPTH's ER

Cameron was in charge in the ER when the call came through. With Cuddy off at a conference, she'd taken control and brow beaten everyone she could into helping out. He'd agreed to lend his services and that of his team to her on the condition that she at least give him something interesting to do. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he may have been wrong about Cameron wasting her talents in the ER. She'd rallied the troupes effortlessly and kept things moving as smoothly as possible given the circumstances. She'd processed discharges to clear out beds while dealing with the authorities and assigning tasks based on each doctor's expertise. He'd been assigned to triage and had diagnosed more patients today than in the whole of last year. He sent each incoming off to the appropriate station with a nurse and a colour coded tag. He'd given out more black tags than he cared to think about.

His stoicism often came off as cruelty but he was glad of that fact. It added to his rep. Days like this though, were a test of his endurance and ability to shut down his emotions. He was a doctor after all. His job was to save lives and it was a blow to him every time he pulled a sheet up over someone's head. To get through the day, he'd grit his teeth, popped a couple extra Vicodin and harassed several nurses. No one had called him on it today though. In those moments in the ER, his attitude was the gold standard that most doctors strived for. When faced with that kind of carnage, it was the only thing that worked.

While he'd been directing traffic, his team was put to good use. Taub handled suturing as well as dealing with a few casualties who had sustained burns. Some had grumbled about having been taken to a teaching hospital; little did they know that their burns and lacerations were being treated by one of the best plastic surgeons in the state. Kutner had been assigned to one of the trauma rooms and spent the day shocking people and cracking chests. He'd been in his element. Cameron had stuck Forman in front of a light board and he hadn't moved away as he analyzed film after film; sometimes ruling out head trauma, other times sending victims along to the OR. He wasn't too sure what task 13 had been handed, and for the life of him could not remember what exactly her specialty was.

Wilson's surgical experience had him elbow deep in internal injuries. He'd been put to work patching up hearts and guts as best he could before handing them off to Chase and the rest of the surgical team. He was fairly certain that Wilson had had to pull up more than his fair share of sheets today as well. He'd seen the man only twice throughout the day. Once, he'd checked in on him in trauma room one and was just in time to hear that thirty two year old Allison Kats had died at 15:45. Wilson had put on his best emotion-free face, ripped off his gloves and gown and turned immediately to the sink to wash his hands before the next body, though hopefully not literally, came through the door. He'd said nothing to Wilson, knowing all too well there was nothing that could be said, but barked at the nurses to clear out and restock the room, hoping to give his friend at least a moment alone. The second time he'd seen him, it was only from behind and his eyes had been drawn to a bright red smudge on the back of Wilson collar where it looked like he'd made an attempt to rub the back of his neck before recalling the state of his hands. He knew that maneuver. It was Wilson's security blanket; it meant that he was either frustrated, exasperated, exhausted, or heartbroken. The smudge had appeared after he'd had sent a seven year old boy, who'd literally been ripped in half, Wilson's way. His money was on a combination of all those emotions. That had been the last of the serious injuries, it having took hours for the rescue workers to extract what was left of the kid. And he'd survived just long enough to make it to the hospital and cause one intern to throw up, three nurses to cry and Wilson's suffering to put a crack in the wall surrounding his heart.

The worst had come after the medicine though. Over the years Cameron had developed a hard shell and shrewd powers of observation. She'd known the talents she had at her disposal and had put them to good use. Once the flow of bodies had slowed to a trickle, Wilson had been scrubbed clean and set to work dealing with the families. That was Wilson's special gift. While he blocked himself off from emotion, Wilson had the unique ability to emphasize with the suffering of every person who's path he crossed. There had been a total of eight deaths, twelve patients sent for surgery, four of whom were still in critical condition, and a host of other minor injuries. These were divided up amongst twenty or so families waiting to be given some sort of news. Most of the doctors present had deferred to Wilson, and his 'expertise' in this area. He'd watched as his friend had stumbled from the ER with both hands squeezing the back of his neck, as if to keep from slamming into the first wall they could find. He observed everyone around him, and took note of their feelings, cares and worries, but not since Stacy had those feelings mattered to him. He had seen the same carnage as everyone else today, but the despair radiating from his best friend and lover was what had his heart in a vice grip. What had he gotten himself into?

Tired, sore and disgustingly dirty, they'd cleaned up in the hospital locker room and made for Wilson's car in a silence as companionable as the morning, but with fewer smiles. Wilson drove them out of the garage on to the street where heavy snow had begun to fall again, making the roads slick and the going slow. Wilson had turned off the radio and gripped the wheel tightly. He'd turned the radio back on, only to have Wilson turn it off again. He'd turned it on again and was happy to see the ghost of a smile on Wilson's face before he sighed and turned the radio off for a final time.

Just a block from his place, he'd felt the tires spin and the back end of Wilson's Volvo sway slightly. He'd known it was nothing, just something that happens when you drive in the winter, but he'd kept his mouth shut when Wilson pulled off the road and put the car in park. They'd both gotten out and walked the last block. Their pace had been slow with Wilson's arm about his waist, holding him steady, holding him. As they'd walked, the snow turned to a falling wet slush and they were soaked to the skin by the time they'd made it up the steps and through the front door.

These were the events that had led to a dripping wet Wilson, stripping away sodden layers in front of him, shaking from both cold and exhaustion. It still didn't explain why he was reaching for this man after shucking his own wet coat. Wilson's face felt warm under his frozen fingers as he wiped cold drops from it. His fingers twined into Wilson's hair and gripped his scalp tightly, trying to soak up the heat that was starting to radiate from it. He closed the distance between them, lowering his head so that his lips could brush Wilson's still damp forehead, his temples, his cheeks and his lips. Wilson's mouth hung open as he tried to force air into the tightness of his chest.

Wilson's hands, warm now, peeled the wet fabric of his t-shirt from his back as they ran their way up his skin, clutching him and still trembling. Wilson tilted his head back, away from his wandering lips to looks into his eyes. The intensity of the gaze went straight to the pit of his gut and his breath came short as he dropped his forehead down to press against his lover's. Splaying his hand on the back of Wilson's neck, he angled their lips to meet and gently kissed first Wilson's bottom lip, then the top, before lightly running his tongue over them. The blood was pounding so loudly in his ears that he almost didn't here the deep timber of Wilson's tired voice saying "Come to bed with me."

He made his ungainly way down the hall to his bedroom where a shirtless Wilson was waiting for him with a towel. He let the man strip him of his wet garments and rub the towel roughly over his head. The friction of the terry cloth felt good and it eased his tension somewhat and made his skin tingle with renewed warmth. Once Wilson had dried his own hair, leaving it sticking out in every direction, and abandoned the towel, he pulled him in for a slow kiss while working the man's belt and pants open. Thus accomplished, while never allowing their lips to part, he pushed the material, boxers and all down to the floor. Under the cold, wet clothes, the heat of the other man's body was shocking as he pressed the length of their skin together. Embracing the man, he ran his hands over as much of that hot skin he could reach in strong strokes; he needed to feel the live, healthy warmth under his fingers. So many bodies, drained of their blood, pale, lifeless, cold. He'd touched so many today, their pulses weak and fluttering, or rapid and out of rhythm. Wilson was warm against him; his heart beat strongly. He could feel the hitching, panting breath coming from the other's chest as his lover started to fall apart. He gripped the back of Wilson's neck and in a broken whisper begged him to stop before his shaken stoicism crumbled completely. He pulled on Wilson's hair and buried his face in the crook of his neck and pleaded again as he began to tremble under the strain, trying desperately to stay in control and stay strong. For him. He pulled back just far enough to claim Wilson's lips in a fierce kiss, catching the last of the partial sobs, effectively distracting them both.

Leaning on Wilson, he slowly walked them to the edge of the bed. One hand still on the back of Wilson's neck, massaging steadily, the guided them slowly down, letting Wilson hold his hips as he balanced his weight on just one knee. Once settled, Wilson's hands moved from his hips and across his back. They pulled at his arms until his elbows buckled and his weight was held entirely by Wilson's chest. They both squirmed uncomfortably, but neither made any productive attempts to limit the full body contact just yet. Wilson kissed him as if his life depended on it. His lips felt battered and bruised, but only when they were fully connected did Wilson's shaking, and his too, still. It wasn't very often that making out served to calm two men down, but he could feel Wilson relax under him as their tongues dueled. Only when he felt Wilson's caresses become more gentle, less insistent, did he slide slightly off to the side and let their mouths break away for a much needed breath. He continued to lay kisses along Wilson's jaw, tipping the man's head to the side so he could pay special attention to the spot that had, bright red, held his gaze earlier. He laved the spot with his tongue and for a moment, imagined he could still taste the blood that had stained it, that had marked Wilson with the responsibility of a little boy's life.

He knew, after a day like today, Wilson's instincts would be to yield his control, his body, to another. Many nights, he'd held Wilson down and fucked him while he begged for harder, faster. In those moments, with his teeth on Wilson's shoulder, and his cock buried deep in his ass, the responsibility disappeared. For a little while, Wilson did not own his body, had freely given it up to his best friend, and for that time, that was all he felt, instead of the waning life of dozens of patients, both past and present.

He was more than happy to give this to his best friend. They were well suited in that way; the more things spiraled out of control, unlike Wilson, the harder he clung to it rather than abandoning it. The only thing that got in the way of screwing Wilson into the oblivion they were both looking for was his leg. He'd been on his feet all day and there was no way he'd be able to do Wilson the service he was looking for. He groaned softly as Wilson gasped and arched up as his finger circled the man's entrance. He looked into Wilson's eyes and tried to convey his regret that this was not going to happen the way it should. Wilson leaned in and claimed his lips. He felt himself being rolled onto his back and Wilson's weight across his chest as he reached into the drawer of the bedside table.

He looked up in as much awe as someone with his ego could, as Wilson straddled his hips and leaned down for another kiss. The slickness of Wilson's tongue in his mouth mirrored the cool wetness that Wilson spread on his fingers. The hands in his hair tightened as one lubed finger pushed into his lover and he drew his breath in as the hard members caught between them bounced together when Wilson's hips jerked slightly. Wilson moaned into his mouth but continued to kiss him as he worked another finger in, stretching and thrusting. He set a slow pace with his fingers while his other hand stroked Wilson's neck in time. He struggled to breathe as Wilson ground against him, matching the rhythm. Wilson sat up suddenly, crying out as his fingers sunk deeper. He was almost glad for the fatigue and the pills that kept him from coming when Wilson applied his slicked up hands to his cock.

He'd expected Wilson to impale himself and ride him like a wild man; to force any memory of this day out of his mind. Instead, Wilson's body draped over him, and their mouths met in an uncharacteristically gentle kiss. His head spun at the connotations of a kiss like that, until everything when blank as Wilson slowly lowered himself onto his eagerly waiting cock. Wilson shifted no more than an inch as the head breached his body. Wilson stayed like that, the tight ring of muscle gripping fiercely around his most sensitive spot, and kissed him slowly, breathing into his mouth. A whimpering sound escaped from the back of his throat, and he could taste Wilson's smile. He was rewarded with a slow, fluid slide of his cock into incredible heat.

Wilson broke away and gasped, panting to catch his breath. He allowed his lover the few minutes to adjust to the hard length of him. He would normally use this moment to stroke Wilson's cock, gone soft with the burn of penetration. Wilson's body was spread over him though, not allowing any separation that would let a hand in, not wanting it. He instead wrapped his arms around the man and gripped him tightly. Wilson hands held his head, forced their eyes to meet. The gaze told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to look away. When Wilson slowly began to move his body, his eyes fluttered shut and his head tried to tilt back. It was held in place though and gentle pulling at his hair forced his eyes open again. Staring into those dark brown orbs, it struck him. The sneaky bastard was making love to him. Oh shit, and he was loving every second of it.

Wilson was usually a vocal lover. He had often laughed as the neighbours upstairs banged on the floor. Then he would suck on the sensitive spot on Wilson collar bone to make him moan louder. Tonight, Wilson was oddly silent. He moaned and gasped as he continued to ride him, keeping his slow pace, gentle, almost reverent, but his normal, constant, verbal fountain was barely sputtering. Disconcerted, his started up on his own, to make up for the silence that scared him half to death. Once he opened his mouth though, he couldn't stop. Word, admission, _emotions, -Wilson-pleaseneed-please- _erupted from him and there was nothing he could do to stop it. _I..Wilson-wantgod-goodplease-mine._ It was as if he was past the point of no return and was coming in near violent spurts of language. _Staymineohwilsonjamesloveyoudontgoeverpleasemine_.

He was sure that Wilson, staring into his eyes as he orally ejaculated, saw his pupils dilate in shock at his own words as the spilled from his lips. Wilson smiled and granted his mercy by stopping the flow with his own mouth, their tongues meeting, letting the words pass between them without being leaked into the atmosphere. His fingers dug into the flesh on Wilson hips, trying to slow him as his pace increased with the demands of his body. He wasn't ready for this to end, for them to disengage and for everything to dissipate. This was his moment, his turning point and he was grappling to hang on to it as the physical inevitables of both their bodies was forcing it to end. He knew the sound of Wilson's climax well, the howling, screaming, laughing outbursts. This. This was different. If not for the gasping breath he'd have though he'd been deafened, and every other sense heightened. He could feel the clenching around him, and warm spurts of fluid on his abdomen. Wilson temperature raised by several degrees and he could smell the increased waves of sweat, cologne and hospital disinfectant that radiated from him with the extra heat. He could have sworn he could taste his own orgasm on Wilson lips as they kissed and he could count each thick brown eyelash as they fluttered past his eyes on down his cheek.

Sweaty, sticky, bone tired and weak as a kitten, Wilson settled over him, his weight mostly on the mattress beside him. He smiled with sated smugness and didn't even mind that his arm was going numb from being crushed under another body. Wilson had pushed him out of his comfort zone on so many levels, but he'd finally realized that then line had never been behind him. It had been hovering just in front of him, moving back a little with each step he took towards it, much like when he was a kid and his dad would offer him a candy, pulling it away when he reached for it. What he had with Wilson, what had sprouted almost spontaneously had no demarcation, no distinct separation. It was, and there was no line to step over to make it exist more. He liked a challenge though, and that teasingly quick line, staying just out of his grasp, would make him keep taking steps forward. He pulled Wilson closer, even though he was still covered in slowly drying semen. If this were a race with no finish line, nothing to mark completion, and subsequently boredom, he might just make it work after all.


End file.
